


show me your back (and the secret it keeps)

by Pandelion



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-17
Updated: 2012-09-17
Packaged: 2017-11-14 10:19:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/514182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pandelion/pseuds/Pandelion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's always hidden it. Them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	show me your back (and the secret it keeps)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [morganoconner](https://archiveofourown.org/users/morganoconner/gifts).



> I don't know what this is, but here, have 2k of Stiles-with-tentacles.
> 
> For morganoconner because she's the reason this even exists, so. Also, thanks to queerly_it_is for looking this over.

He's always hidden it. Them.

Always so careful, every night Scott spent over at his house or vice versa. Always dragging just that tiny bit in the locker room before lacrosse, using the locker door and every bad angle to his advantage. He can control it, hide them for a little while, but it hurts and he reserves those times for swimming in the summer, the cool water a balm for the ache in his back.

Nine years, now, since they'd first appeared and his mother had laughed, run her fingers over the stubby things and turned to show him the full-grown ones on her own back, let him tug and play with them. It had been one more thing for them to bond over, a secret that only Daddy knew and no one else, ever.

By now, it's second nature to keep his back hidden, turned away and shielded. His backpack doesn't bother him; he practices lifting it away from himself using one or two of them, grins to himself at likening the action to push-ups.

His mom had never told him about any others like them, never mentioned creatures like vampires or werewolves or ghosts, and Stiles spends the first few years of his teens running random searches on Google and wondering if anything he read was true, wondering if maybe he really was the only one.

Then Scott is bitten halfway through sophomore year and Stiles' life flips upside down.

All of a sudden, there are werewolves everywhere he turns and he's picking kernals of truth out of tons of lore and legend, fighting for a semblance of normality and a chance to take a breath between teaching Scott control and avoiding a mysterious, murderous werewolf. It's exhausting and thrilling and Stiles spends every moment not caught up in it worried that either Scott or Derek will get a good whiff of him and figure out his secret.

Somehow, though, he makes it all the way to throwing homemade Molotov Cocktails at insane Uncle Peter and Derek declaring himself Alpha with his back unbared. For a few days, he's almost got himself convinced that all the drama is done and over with, that he can relax.

Then Isaac happens, and Erica and Boyd, and they're running again, this time with a lizard-person and hunter insanity. It's all Stiles can do to keep up with things and two hours spent holding Derek freaking Hale in the school pool really does not help. The only good thing about that is that it's easier than it probably should be to keep approximately two hundred pounds of deadweight werewolf afloat.

In all the terror and action, Stiles nearly forgets about his own secret, so caught up in everyone else's problems. It's not until Gerard kidnaps him from the lacrosse field that he starts thinking about it again and then it's all he can do to keep Gerard's blows focused on his face and front, running his mouth and saying God knows what and part of him aware of Boyd and Erica behind him, strung up and sizzling.

It works and Stiles walks home slowly, face and chest bruised and tender, but secret intact.

After...after, it's summer and it's Stiles and Scott again, playing lacrosse and trying to find their way past six months of rifts back to the ease and friendship of before.

Stiles relaxes.

Which, of course, is when it happens.

He's in his room, in his own house, sitting in his desk chair backwards as he plays an RPG. His shirt's off and the fan's going and he's got both hands on the keyboard, wondering absently if he could reach the open can of Coke without moving.

"Stiles, I--what the hell."

Stiles nearly falls on the floor, barely getting himself untangled from the chair as he spins towards the window and Derek. "What the hell, yourself!" he yelps. "I swear, I am putting bells on you because this sneaking shit has got to go!" Too late, he realizes what Derek's looking at and he pulls them back quickly, wincing slightly as the ache immediately starts up, his back gone tight and sore. "What?" he says.

Derek's eyes narrow and he drops from the windowsill slowly. "What are those...things?" he asks. He sniffs at the air, but Stiles figures that if his scent had been able to give him away, it would have done so a long time ago.

Shrugging, Stiles grabs at his hoodie, hauls it over his head. It doesn't go farther than his shoulders, though, since Derek grabs it and pulls it off. " _Stiles_."

"Dude, personal space," Stiles grumbles, looking away as Derek's eyes bleed red. "What, did I have something on my back?"

He's playing dumb, stretching it out as far as he can and hoping that he can come up with some explanation that he can get by the inconvenience of having a living lie detector focused on his heartbeat. Maybe if he doesn't give Derek the answers he's looking for, the werewolf will leave it be.

He doesn't have much hope in that, though.

Derek hauls him around, runs rough fingerpads down the blades of Stiles' shoulders, over the knobs of his spine. There's nothing there to be seen or felt, of course, but the touches...tingle, leaving a hum of sensation in their wake that lays over the ache and nearly drowns it out. It's not enough to distract Stiles from keeping everything tucked away, though, not until Derek's thumb strokes down Stiles' spine and  _pushes_  just right.

Stiles' concentration shatters and the ache dissipates in seconds. Derek's suddenly a good five feet away, something like surprise mixed with his usual scowl as he stares at Stiles' back.

The cat's out of the bag, so to speak, and Stiles sighs, sits back down in his chair and swivels to face Derek, snagging his Coke as he does. His hands are firm on the back of the chair as he lifts it up and takes a drink and Derek's eyes track it intently.

"How?" Derek asks after a long moment. Stiles returns the can to his desk, shakes off the chill that lingers.

"Presumably genetics," he says, shrugging. "I don't know the details. It's not recent, though; I've had them all my life."

Derek eyes them and Stiles can't resist the urge; he lifts three at once and waggles the ends, grinning when Derek scowls more.

"What are they? They look like..."

"Tentacles?" Stiles supplies when Derek trails off. He grabs one and eyes it. It really does look like a tentacle, minus the neat suction cups that octopi and squid have on theirs (he's been angry about that for days when he'd learned about them in first grade). Smooth skin that fades from a deep copper-red along the top to pale orange on the bottom. Not slimy, thank god, but cool to the touch, like the boa constrictor he'd had when he was younger. The other five are the same. "Yeah, I guess you could call them that."

Derek doesn't say anything, but he edges closer, eyes on the six tentacles attached to Stiles' back. Stiles considers it for a moment, then stretches two in Derek's direction.

"You can touch them, if you want," he says, half hopeful and half scared that Derek will.

"They're not poisonous?" Derek asks, leaning closer but not touching. Stiles rolls his eyes.

"No, they're not poisonous. Why the hell would you think that?"

Derek just looks at him. Oh, right. Tentacles. Poison really isn't that far out there after that.

He's about to rescind the offer, pull the limbs back in and tuck them safe against his back, when Derek reaches out and runs a single finger along one of the tentacles. Stiles shudders and a small, "Oh," escapes. Derek glances at him, then does it again. Stiles' eyes close and he has to focus hard to open them again.

No one's ever touched the tentacles except his mom and occasionally his dad and that hasn't happened since he was eight. It hadn't felt like this, then. Wherever Derek touches, fire lights in Stiles' nerves and the hum is back, a static of sensation that fogs his thoughts and makes him want to lean into it, feel it with as much of his skin as possible.

Derek makes a startled sound and Stiles struggles to open his eyes, surprised to find them shut again. All six of Stiles' tentacles are wrapped around Derek's hand and wrist and Stiles flushes, avoiding Derek's eyes as he pulls them back. It's harder than usual, like part of him doesn't want to let go, but finally they're all curled against his back.

He takes a deep breath. "Sorry, sorry, I don't know why, they just--yeah," he says. Derek doesn't say anything and Stiles looks away, picks at the vinyl of his chair with a fingernail. "My mom had them, too," he blurts suddenly, then flushes when Derek's eyebrows go up. "I said they were genetic," he mutters.

"What color were they?" Derek asks. Stiles looks at him. It's a bit of a non-sequitor, but Derek looks serious and Stiles bites back the automatic sarcastic response.

"Uh, more red," he says, remembering the times he'd spent with his mom, laying on the floor with tentacles wrapped around each other and talking about pirates and spaceships and fish. "Rose red," he clarifies. "With freckles."

Derek hums and his eyes drop to Stiles' back. "I like yours," he says, reaching a hand out. There's a tentacle wrapped around Derek's fingers before Stiles can think of a reply and he gapes at his wayward limb for a moment. He hadn't been aware of any particular desire to fondle Derek's fingers previously, but that's what's happening, his tentacle winding between and around Derek's fingers like it's got a mind of its own.

"What?" he manages after a moment, voice oddly faint. There's fire and static and if he couldn't very well see that Derek's hand is nowhere near his pants, he'd think that it was some other body part that was being gently gripped and stroked.

He glances up at Derek's face in time to see him take a breath. Derek's eyes go dark and red bleeds over the green-grey color. Something sharp catches on the tip of Stiles' tentacle and  _oh._  Stiles shudders, feeling Derek's eyes on him, and this is very much not how he'd envisioned this going.

"They're sensitive," Derek says, voice suddenly half an octave deeper and rough. He doesn't let go, though, just squeezes slightly and oh god, Stiles is not going to survive this.

"Derek," he says. "Derek. Just. Please--"

There's another tentacle wrapping around Derek's wrist and a third slipping up his forearm. Those are the only points they're touching, a good two feet between them still, but the minimal contact is making Stiles feel like his skin is too tight and there's a heat riding just under the surface.

" _Derek_."

Derek's other hand comes up, reaches for Stiles, wraps around the thick base of the top two tentacles. Stiles' head knocks against the chair back at that and he arches into it. "Oh, god, don't--don't stop."

Tight grip and firm strokes, with the occasional hint of sharpness against the undersides, and Stiles is riding the edge within minutes, gasping and hitching breaths into his forearm and so hard it nearly hurts. Every single one of the tentacles is wrapped around Derek, now, six long lines of fire and want making him tremble and whine.

"Now," Derek rumbles, just as he squeezes at the bases again, and Stiles obeys unthinkingly, crying out as he falls into long waves and pulses of something beyond mere pleasure.

When he can think again, he lifts his head, mindful of the way every muscle feels like jello. The tentacles are limp against his back again and Derek is nowhere to be seen, though the window is still open. That and the cooling stickiness in his jeans are the only signs that Derek was ever there. The static is gone, too.

Stiles just sits there for a while, thinking.


End file.
